


Draco in darkness

by Umi_no_arawashi



Series: Obscurum [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Implied/Referenced Incest, M/M, past Darco/Voldemort (non con), past Harry/Lucius (non con)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2014-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:53:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27710030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Umi_no_arawashi/pseuds/Umi_no_arawashi
Summary: This is a snippet that should have come at the very end of my unfinished fic Obscurum per obscurius, in which Harry was kept prisoner in Malfor Manor and was abused by Lucius.Lucius also maneuvered to make Draco Voldemort's consort, although we leaned that he had himself an unhealthy attraction for Draco. It was never directly acted upon, but Draco was aware of it.In the midst of all this, Draco and Harry found comfort in each other.This takes place later, after the end of all the fighting. Draco has survived, and lives with Harry. Lucius is dead.But the scars of what happen are still there.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: Obscurum [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2137824
Comments: 4
Kudos: 4





	Draco in darkness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DarklingDarling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarklingDarling/gifts).



There. There it is again, that look, that one moment when he knows Draco is slipping away from him.

He had him. For a moment, he thought this time Draco wasn’t going to be able to go away the way he does, retreating inside himself.

Draco was with him when they were kissing, when Harry was pressing him against the wall so hard Draco’s breath felt laboured and forced. He was with him when Harry forced his tongue inside Draco’s mouth, claiming him. It had been perfect, Draco underneath him, angular and lean, the heat of his cock, rock hard, pressing into Harry’s thigh, the small mewling sound Draco made at the back of his throat as Harry rocked against him, rubbing his own length along it. And Draco had been with him when harry pushed him onto the bed, none too gently, fingers scrabbling to gain access to Draco’s skin, to see him.

But now Draco is spread out in front of him, pale and gorgeous, something almost obscene in the way he’s offering himself, legs spread, cock flush against his stomach, lips half parted, swollen from kissing, and it should be the most perfect thing, should be exactly what Harry wants, what he craves. Except that Draco is gone. Draco is away, and Harry knows it, and he can’t keep pretending this is fine.

His stupid body, god help him, doesn’t care, keeps telling him this is perfectly fine, that Draco is perfectly willing and that he needs him, he needs to bury himself to the hilt in the heat of his body and take him. And he knows Draco will make all the right noises, moan in all the right places, arch his back most convincingly and let out that shuddering hiss that sounds almost pained, almost like it’s hurting him, as he comes in Harry’s hand, and clench mercilessly around Harry with a heat that’s almost unbearable.

One second, Draco is asking for it, begging for it, and the next, Harry is making love to some perfectly life-like replica, a beautiful doll that knows how to writhe and cling and sigh in imitation of life, but an empty, soulless shell anyway.

And that’s the terrible thing. Draco isn’t soulless, Draco is the most alive, vibrant person he knows, so sensitive it’s fucking annoying sometimes, volatile and yet so fiercely loyal, in a hidden, secretive way - because that’s just the way Draco is, intensely secretive about the things he really cares about, as though it were something to be ashamed of. 

But sometimes he just switches off. That's why Harry can’t go on. Because he knows Draco is miles away and can’t even help it.

So he stops. He stops, ignoring Draco’s sigh of frustration, the hand pulling him down. Because Draco’s eyes are avoiding his. Because they have turned a cold, leaden grey. Because he needs to know where Draco goes when he does that.

It actually takes a full five seconds for Draco to fully realise Harry isn’t going to keep going. There’s this almost palpable effort in the way Draco focuses back on him, like he’s wrenching himself away from something. God, but Draco goes so fucking far into himself, it’s like watching him digging himself out of the ground or something.

He frowns. “What’s wrong?” He sounds irritated. 

“Why do you do this?”

“Do what? 

“Draco, I just can’t keep… what’s wrong? Don’t you want this?”

“Of course I want this, you idiot. What the hell’s the matter with you now?”

“Draco, when we do this, lately, it’s… It’s like you’re not here. Like you’re somewhere else.”

Draco narrows his eyes. He does that when he’s angry. “I have no idea what you mean. Where the fuck would I be? I’m here. I enjoy it. Get on with it.”

_Yeah, except you’re lying. And I know you too well to be fooled anymore. You know exactly what I mean._

“No. Tell me what’s wrong. Is it something I do? Something I don’t do? Tell me.”

And then Draco is pushing him off. God, but Draco is furious, incandescent with rage. He gets up, stark naked, crosses the room like some great stalking white panther or something. His movements always get so fluid and graceful when he’s angry. He grabs a robe as he leaves, slamming the door. Harry feels he would have broken it off the hinges if he’d been able.

Draco is angry, yes, but there’s something else. It looks like fear. There’s that shadow on him, like there is when Draco is thinking about something too dark to share with Harry.

*

Draco never talks about Voldemort during the day. Well, not really. He’ll mention him if he thinks it'll get a rise out of someone - usually Ron -, for the shock value of it, like the spiteful child he is sometimes. But he never says anything real, anything true.

The only time when he’ll speak about it is at night, and the only person he’ll talk to then is Harry. It comes in stops and starts, and Harry has learnt not to ask questions. Not to say anything. Because if he shows any reaction, then Draco will retreat. He’ll make a joke, or try to minimise it, or lie.

So Harry doesn’t say anything. He just listens, and tries to fix them in his memory, all these small sharp shards that might help him one day solve that puzzle that is Draco. He makes sure that he is close to Draco, though, when he talks about that. That their skin is touching somewhere. It’s easy, because usually Draco will say that in the quiet hours after their lovemaking, with Harry drifting in and out of sleep, curled around Draco. Draco takes hours to fall asleep.

 _His skin was cold._ That was the first thing Draco had said. Harry hadn't even needed to ask him who he meant.

_He liked to leave marks on me. Bruises, usually, but sometimes bite marks. He said they looked good on me. I erased them when I came back home, that one time. I didn’t want my mother to see._

_He was strong. So strong that it was impossible to stop him when he didn't want to be stopped. Like a statue, like cold marble with infinite strength._

_Once, to show me, he took my wrist in his hand, and squeezed. He didn't even need to make any kind of effort. I felt the bones shatter like glass. He fixed me, of course. And he was proud of me for not screaming._

_It wasn't to please him that I never complained. It was for me. And because you never begged. You never broke. So if you were able to do it, I had to be as well._

_It was pointless to lie. It was impossible to hide anything from him. He always saw right through me. But he didn’t care. He liked to watch me struggle to keep myself from screaming. He loved that every smile he got from me was false. He said it made it sweeter, somehow, to watch me fight my repulsion, my fear._

_He said my fear was what make me precious to him. He said he loved that I would never fight him, that I was too cowardly to do so, too worried about my own safety. That I was too scared to be anything but loyal to him._

_His skin was cold. I think I already told you that. But it was… it was a huge part of what it was like for me. He was like some dead thing, even when he was fucking me. I’m not sure he even got much physical pleasure from it. It was all in the mind, with him. All about power and control._

_It was strange, really, how scared they all were of me. They all thought I had power, you see. That was funny, the way they would bow and scrape to me. So I’d always act as though I had power. As though I had control. But I had nothing. Nothing._

_The scar. He did that with his wand. It was slow. I don’t know how he did it, exactly. It burned like a brand. It won’t go away. I know. I tried._

Harry has learnt not to touch that scar, that deep capital v. Draco hates it. He’ll push his hand away if Harry even gets close to it, sometimes angrily. It hurts, he’ll say. Harry doesn’t think he means physically. But he doesn’t ask. He wishes he could take it away. Like he wishes he could take away his own scar, sometimes. It’s strange, that they both carry these marks, all because of one dead man. Scars that can’t be erased.

*

Harry really doesn’t have much of a choice. If he wants Draco back, he’ll have to go and get him. The only thing he hopes is that Draco will agree to come back. He knows it’s possible one day he’ll push too hard and Draco won’t come back to him. But it feels like he’s losing Draco either way, like he’s letting him slip out of his fingers.

Draco is in the drawing room. He has wrapped himself in his dressing gown, and he's got his arms crossed. He's looking outside at the night. His jaw is clenched. He doesn’t acknowledge it when Harry walks in, doesn’t even move an inch. He’s frozen. 

Harry opens the drinks cabinet, pulls out two glasses. Wordlessly, he pours them two drinks. Recently, Draco has been favouring vodka, a very unwizard-like drink. Anything is fine by Harry, as long as it’s not firewhiskey. The smell of that still makes him feel ill. 

He goes to stand next to Draco, wordlessly nudges him with the glass. Draco doesn't look at him but takes the drink anyway.

They stand there in silence. Draco drinks, a little too quickly, perhaps. 

"You're angry," says Harry. It's a statement, not a question.

"Whatever gave you that impression?" Sarcasm is pouring off him. Like it does whenever he feels really unsure.

"Talk to me, then. Tell me why."

"Why do you have to be like that?" Draco is tapping his fingers against his glass. "Why can't you just accept this is who I am and let me be?"

"Maybe it's just because of who _I_ am. I don't want to let you go. I want all of you, Draco, I want to help you. I can't ignore you when I know you're hurting."

"You and your damn saviour complex. You can't leave things alone, can you?"

"I'm sorry."

"No." Draco lets his shoulder rub against Harry's. "I'm the one who should apologise. But it's just... It's not that easy. You can't expect me to just... Tell you everything that's wrong with me as though it would solve everything."

"I know. But you do this thing... You slip away when I'm with you, you're lost somewhere, and it scares me. I'm scared I might lose you."

"Have I ever told you you're a sentimental idiot, Potter?"

"Yes." Harry smiles. "Many times."

"And the most annoyingly possessive person in the world?"

"That too."

"And despite all that, I'm still here, aren't I?" Draco looks at him with a rueful smile. "So can't we just pretend everything is fine?"

"I want to help you," says Harry. It sounds weak to his own ears.

"You don't have to. You're here, and that's all that matters. But can't you just accept that... Well, that there are things I can't tell you about? Not yet. Maybe not ever."

*

There are many things Draco never talks about. 

His mother, for one. 

His family. The manor. It's hard for Harry to understand how much he loved the place. It's always been a prison to Harry, so he can't possibly imagine what it was like for Draco, how irremediably linked it is with his childhood, with comfort, with warmth. How painful it must be that it's now an empty wreck, crumbling slowly in the middle of a forest in Wiltshire.

It worries Harry, because it used to be such a huge part of who he was, and now it's been ripped out of him, leaving a gaping hole. 

Then there's the other thing he never talks about. The one that hangs over them like a pall at times.

Lucius.

They have never once talked about him since his death. Once, Ron and Draco were bickering, the way they do - Harry lets it go on, because it cheers Draco up so much, and, to be honest, these days it seems Ron is enjoying it as much as Draco - , and Ron unthinkingly said that name. He meant it as one more inoffensive jab, one more thing to throw at him that would just bounce back harmlessly. 

Draco went white as a sheet. He didn't utter another word all evening.

Ron felt terrible about it afterwards. Hermione was livid, and shouted at him for ages when they got back home, he told Harry.

So Harry doesn't know how to breach the subject. But this rift between him and Draco is growing. And this is at the centre of it.

*

So that's why the next words that come out of Draco's mouth shock Harry completely.

"I miss my father."

Harry doesn't know what to say to that.

"I know what he was. I know what he did. That's the thing. I know what he did to you. And despite all that, I... I miss him."

"I know, Draco. It's all right. He loved you. He was your father."

"I know. But..." Draco's words come slowly, as though wrenched from him. "The way he loved me..."

Harry doesn't say anything. Doesn't dare. He knows far too much about the way Lucius loved Draco. The hunger that inhabited him, the need. Harry threw it in Draco's face, during that terrible lonely time, wanting to hurt him as badly as he was hurt himself. He wasn't ready for the way Draco reacted. For the fact that Draco knew. And that he lived with that, bore that burden, and never for one second stopped loving Lucius.

So he just takes the hand Draco has let drop by his side in his. Just so their skin is touching. He doesn't know if it helps Draco, but it helps him.

"I don't know... I ask myself, sometimes. If I had done something. If I had let him. If I hadn't kept pushing him away. If I had loved him in the same way he did."

Draco looks sideways, towards Harry. His eyes are dry. There is a sadness in them that seems too great for tears.

"Do you think that would have helped? Do you think... I could have saved him?"

Harry doesn't know what to reply. This is the one thought he has been trying to avoid all this time. The terrifying possibility he has been consciously trying to ignore. That Draco regrets the choice he's made. Harry doesn't mean to, but he lets Draco's hand slip through his fingers. 

He tries to think rationally about this. "Do you think you could have done it? Been with him that way?"

Draco looks away. His jaw is clenched. He has a defiant look in his eyes.

"Yes. If you really want to know, if I'm being really honest about this, I could have."

His eyes lock onto Harry's. He's looking for something in Harry's expression. Harry doesn't know if it's acceptance or condemnation.

"I thought about it. I actually thought about giving in to him. After all, incest wouldn't have been the worst crime we've ever committed, would it?"

"Draco..." It's unfair, and Harry knows he's being a coward, but he wants Draco to stop. He thought he could take it, but now he's not sure.

"Do you want to know the truth? Here it is. I was attracted to him. I was. It didn't matter how wrong it was. You want to know if I could have done it? Easily." He's still looking straight at Harry.  
"I'm in love with you, Harry. But sometimes I think... I was in love with him too."

The strength of his reaction to those words is what shocks Harry. He's the one who pushed Draco to admit this. But it's terrifying. The enormity of it. And suddenly he's filled with a white hot rage, a hatred too great to contain, for that dead monster of a man who just won't leave them alone, even after his death. For Lucius, who fucked up his own son so badly that Draco actually thinks he could have been his father's lover. 

And, incredibly, there's something else. Jealousy. Because there is a way in which it makes perfect sense. Because Lucius would have been able to understand Draco in ways Harry can't. Because Lucius wouldn't have been afraid of the darkness within Draco the way Harry is. Because maybe Draco wouldn't have had to hide behind an endless series of masks with Lucius.

Harry is angry. Harry is furious. And no only at Lucius. He's angry at Draco for making him feel this, forcing him to feel this. He could hit him. God, it feels for an instant he could kill him for this.

He keeps himself in check. He forces himself to calm down. This is the truth. The naked, ugly truth. Draco isn't lying, isn't hiding. Draco has made himself utterly vulnerable to Harry, like an animal baring its own throat in a gesture of submission. Because actually it's clear Draco isn't expecting him to accept this, after all. He's at the same time defiant and resigned. As if it wouldn't surprise him one bit if Harry pushed him away, now, if Harry threw him out.

Harry thinks. He looks at Draco. He smiles.

"Draco...?"

Draco looks completely bewildered by his reaction. "Yes?"

"Am I mistaken, or did you just admit that you're in love with me?"

Draco's reaction is priceless. He actually blushes. "Harry, you stupid... Is this what you're taking away from this?"

"Yes. You've never said it before, you know,"

"Oh, for fuck's sake... What, does this come as some sort of surprise to you or something? Why exactly do you think I'm here?"

"Well, it's a free place to stay?"

"One of these days, Harry, I'm actually going to kill you, you know. Actually strangle you with my bare hands."

"I know. You keep saying." Draco looks utterly flustered, and it's unbearably cute. Harry pulls him in and kisses him, cupping his face in his hands, kisses him slowly, a long, long time.

When he stops, there's a soft, unfocused look in Draco's eyes. Not need, not desire, not greed. Something much warmer and gentler.

"I love you, Draco." It's not a thing he's said often either, though he has said it before. Draco never looked like he fully believed it before.

Draco leans in closer, until their foreheads are touching, entwines his fingers with Harry's.

"I chose you, Harry," he whispers. "In the end, I loved you more."


End file.
